Page 1 of Fire and Silk
Prologue - Chiara
Santa Lucía della Pietra
The chapel is colder than I remember.
Its walls are carved from volcanic stone, black and veined with silver ash. Light spills through the high, arched windows like diluted gold—filtered through stained glass depicting martyrs I stopped praying to long ago. Even the crucifix looks tired. Or maybe I’m projecting.
I sit in the second pew, hands folded, the tips of my fingers pressed so tightly they ache. My rosary is coiled in my palm, not for prayer but for steadiness. The pew beneath me creaks like it remembers every confession I’ve never spoken aloud.
Above the altar, the Virgin holds her dead son with the same quiet I’ve carried since Melbourne.
I’m dressed like a woman untouched by grief. Deep plum silk, gloves that climb to my elbows, pearls at my throat, hair swept into a soft chignon. I look like I belong here—like I’m the widow of some wealthy Sicilian politician come to pay her respects.
I hear him before I see him. The measured rhythm of his leather soles on stone.
He slides into the pew beside me, uninvited. Of course.
He smells like sandalwood and danger, always has. He’s older now—gray hair cut close, suit dark and perfectly tailored,cufflinks shaped like daggers. There’s a scar across his jaw that wasn’t there the last time. It suits him. He wears regret like he wears everything: sleek, pressed, and buried under control.
He turns his head slightly toward me, not enough to make it seem tender. Just enough to provoke.
“How are you?”
I don’t look at him. “Does it matter to you?”
His voice softens in that way it does when he wants to disarm. “You have always mattered.”
I smile. Bitter. Like ash.
Of course I mattered. Until I didn’t.
There was a time he couldn't keep his hands off me. Back when we were both stupid and young and so in love it hurt to look directly at each other. We left Italy like fools in a story—no plan, no money, just matching arrogance and a rented Vespa. Melbourne was a dream with sharp teeth.
We fought. We starved. I remember pasta nights made with boiling water and a single bouillon cube. And I remember the day he came home bloody, jacket torn, knuckles split.
“I’ve made a decision,” he’d said, eyes wild.
I thought he meant he’d found a job. A real one.
But no. Pietro had joined the mafia.
I’d laughed then. It sounded absurd. We weren’t criminals. We were dreamers.
But he was calm.
“This is the only way, Chiara.”
We rose fast. Better food. Better wine. A flat with windows that locked. He went out early, came home late, sometimes not at all.
I stopped asking questions.
He was still mine; I told myself. He came back with roses, and gifts. He kissed me like he still loved me.
Then the night came.
Our home invaded.
Gunshots and glass everywhere. Screams. My screams.
